


he will tear you with his tongue

by FidotheFinch



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Gen, Kidnapping, Misunderstandings, Protective Dick Grayson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29913402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FidotheFinch/pseuds/FidotheFinch
Summary: Dick didn’t think. The goon was adjusting his grip on Damian’s knife, aiming the blade down his neck. The man wanted revenge, and on such short notice Dick only saw one option.Pretend he didn’t care.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne
Comments: 14
Kudos: 110
Collections: DickAndDamiWeek2021





	he will tear you with his tongue

**Author's Note:**

> For Dick & Damian Week 2021, day 1: "Did you really mean that?"  
> Title from "Soldier, Poet, King" by the Oh Hellos.  
> I'll proofread this tomorrow lol
> 
> Warnings: vehicle accident, guns, kidnapping, attempted torture, knife/cutting, super briefly threatened sexual assault, and in the same breath implied slut shaming/victim blaming

Dick tapped the glass of his window casually, watching the familiar buildings of Gotham speed past his view.

“TT.”

Dick angled his body toward Damian. The kid was staring resolutely at the back of the seat in front of him, obviously still pouting over losing this particular argument before they had left the penthouse. “It’s just a few hours.”

“Hours I could have spent training. Or studying. Or watching paint dry.”

Dick fought back the quirk of his lips, knowing it would only send Damian into a darker mood. “Was that a joke?”

“I assure you, it was not.” Damian glowered.

“Think of it as training,” Dick offered. “Undercover work. We have to keep up appearances, so people don’t suspect us.”

“TT.” Damian shifted in his seat uncomfortably. His hands fisted the material of the opposite sleeves.

“Be careful not to crease your suit, Master Damian,” Alfred piped in from the front, the first words he had spoken since they had embarked on their journey into the city. “I will not have time to correct it before they begin filming.”

Damian released his sleeves like he had burned them, his fingers almost imperceptibly smoothing out the small wrinkles that had formed. He still sat with his back ramrod straight, but that was nothing uncommon for the uptight kid.

Still.

“Is there something you’re worried about?” Dick asked. “It should be perfectly safe—”

“I am not _worried_ ,” Damian growled. “I am _annoyed_ that I am being forced to waste my time being interviewed on daytime television.”

“The morning news isn’t—”

“And I am not looking forward to putting on an act of stupidity like the rest of you.”

Okay, so that stung a little. Dick bit his tongue to control his instinctual comeback. Instead he analyzed what lay underneath the statement. “So you’re afraid you’ll look stupid.”

“It would be impossible not to, with you.”

Alfred let a sharp “Master _Damian_ ,” ring across the car, and to the butler’s credit, Damian’s face twitched.

“You cannot deny it,” Damian pressed. “I am doomed to adopt the act that my predecessors have started, and I must accept the fact I will be nakedly mocked on live television and in the drivel that they call news for the rest of the year.”

“Hey,” Dick said, trying to get his attention. When Damian looked up, there was a flicker of emotion behind his eyes before he blocked it off again. They were still working on that. “Who cares what the gossip says? The people that matter know who you really are.”

For a second, Dick thought the words may sink in, that Damian would answer like a normal human with empathy. “Is that what father told you before he kicked you out?”

“ _Damian_ —”

“Master Richard.”

Something in the butler’s voice immediately caught both of their attention.

“What’s wrong?” Dick asked, leaning forward to look over the dashboard. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with the vehicle.

“It appears that we are being followed.”

Even as Alfred said it, Dick’s eyes caught on a set of headlights in the rearview mirror, tailing a little too closely to be comfortable. A matching black van followed them on their left, and when Dick looked forward, there was another one—no license plate— several cars ahead and to their right. “More like we’re being herded,” he muttered.

“I told you we should have brought our weapons,” Damian said. “I could kill the driver behind us within—”

“We’re not _killing_ anybody.” The phrase had grown so familiar he didn’t even blink at it. “I’ll go ahead and call the police. Alfred, try to stay on the busier streets. They won’t try anything where there are so many witnesses.” At least, he hoped they wouldn’t. It really depended on who was in the vans.

Alfred nodded, changed his turn signal, and merged seamlessly into the middle lane.

The van behind them nosed in immediately after, cutting off the driver who had let them over.

Dick dug through his pockets until he found his phone and got to work dialing the police. But the device flew from his hands when, a moment later, the car lurched.

“They hit us,” Alfred explained. “I do not believe they are trying to be subtle, anymore.”

Clearly, whoever it was, they weren’t afraid of making a scene. Time to change tactics. “Think you can shake them?”

“I will try. Please buckle your seatbelt.”

Dick nodded, ducking to retrieve his phone before scrambling back into his seat. The screen was cracked from the force with which he had dropped it.

“Master Damian, you must wear your seatbelt, too.”

Dick shifted his attention away from his broken (non-functioning) phone to see Damian, kneeling backwards on the bench to glare out the rear windshield. “Damian, sit down.”

“I _am_ sitting,” the kid replied, his eyes never leaving the van behind them. “The man has a prison tattoo on his left bicep and a shamrock tattoo on his neck. Are you familiar with him?”

“Turn around and put your ass. . . actually.” Dick twisted in his seat to get a look. (And released his seatbelt so he could look more clearly.) “Yeah, that’s Korban Branthwaite. He was part of a crew responsible for a string of bank robberies a while ago. He just got out on parole last month.”

“I could easily leap from our vehicle to his and demand an explanation.”

“You’re not doing that. I’m not letting you do that. Seriously, Damian. Put your seatbelt on before—” Dick’s next words were cut off by Alfred’s shout. He had just enough time to grab Damian before the van barreling toward them slammed into the side of their car.

Dick pulled Damian in close to his body, twisting around the smaller boy to protect him from the worse of the impact as the world around them erupted into chaos. The windows shattered inward, the door crumpling in like a crushed tin can. Their vehicle screeched and whined, snapping side to side hard enough to give Dick whiplash as the wheels fought to regain traction. The view outside spun across the windows, road-cars-trees-dirt blurring into an incomprehensible mess.

Dick shut his eyes and held on tighter, his stomach swooping like it did on the trapeze.

After what felt like an eternity, the motion stopped.

He waited until he was sure, until the rocking of the car stilled and the only noise was of the traffic passing outside. Only then did Dick loosen his fingers, let his eyes stray down to the quiet face tucked under his chin. “Are you okay?” he asked, the slight waver inn his voice giving away his worry.

“Tt.” Damian pushed against Dick’s chest, propelling himself backward. “I am fine.”

Uh-huh.

Dick looked him over and was relieved to find nothing worse than a few scratches and bruises from the broken glass. Damian had already shifted his attention outside, where the van that had hit them rested several yards away. He smacked Dick’s hand away when he tried to brush broken glass out of his hair. “I do not believe they were trying to kill us.”

Dick pressed his lips together. “No.” Then, panic hit him with more clarity. “Alfred!”

“I am alright, Master Richard.”

Dick pushed to the front seat, knowing that he lived with a family of liars who would prefer to bleed out than admit they had an injury. Alfred was pinned back by his seatbelt, and a quick scan revealed a bleeding nose and broken arm. “We’ll get Leslie to set that,” Dick promised him.

“They’re coming,” Damian said, voice serious.

“Who?”

“Your thieves.”

Dick stooped to look out the windshield, and, sure enough, another of the black vans had pulled up, blocking their view of the road beyond. Four men trotted down the small incline toward their car. “Shit.”

“You are sure we cannot kill them?”

Dick didn’t get the chance to respond. The men reached their car and forced the good doors open hard enough to shake it again.

“Get out,” one of the men barked. He was a big guy, with a handlebar mustache and a matching shamrock tattoo, but on his arm.

“No,” Damian sneered.

Two of the men flanking the big one pulled out guns. Dick reacted on instinct, backing up and spreading his arms to block their view of Damian. He couldn’t let the kid get shot.

“I won’t tell you again,” the man threatened.

“Look, I’ll come.” Dick held up his hands non-threateningly. “Leave the kid here. He doesn’t know anything.”

The man looked him up and down with a predatory gaze that made Dick shiver. Finally, he gave a curt nod. “Grab him.”

The two men flanking him lowered their weapons in favor of reaching inside, grabbing each of Dick’s arms and hauling him out. When Dick’s feet found the grass, they wasted no time fastening zipties around his wrists and a blindfold over his eyes.

Dick breathed deeply to control his fear reaction as they shoved him blindly forward.

“Let go of me!”

“Damian?” Dick dug his heels in, stopping their progress. “You said—”

“Shut up before I decide to bring the old man, too.”

Dick pressed his tongue into the roof of his mouth as hard as he could. Alfred needed to be looked at by a medical professional; it would do him no good being dragged into this. But Damian was untested, as far as civilian kidnappings went.

If this was a kidnapping.

They frog-marched Dick to what he assumed was the van before tossing him inside. He landed hard on his stomach, his face rubbing against rough, crusty carpet. The smell of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and stale sweat assaulted his nose.

“Where are you taking us?” he asked.

A warm, bony body landed on top of his, letting out a muffled snarl of displeasure. So they had gagged Damian. That was probably a good thing.

“That’s none of your concern,” the lead man replied.

The van rocked as the rest of the men filed in. Doors rolled shut around them, the engine rumbled to life, and the car swayed as it pulled back up onto the road.

“Search his pockets.”

“Wait.” Before hands could begin roaming all over his body (a thought that made his skin crawl), Dick offered, “My wallet’s in the left breast pocket of my jacket.”

A big hand slipped into his jacket and retrieved it easily.

“Phone?”

Dick internally cringed, already knowing where this was going. “I don’t have it.”

“Search him.”

Dick couldn’t see the touches coming; he couldn’t help but flinch away from each brush of contact. “I don’t have it. I lost it in the wreck.”

There was a muffled growl from next to him. God, they were searching Damian, too.

“Found one on the kid.”

“Give it to me,” the leader commanded. A moment later, “Give me his thumb. I need access.”

The smaller body next to Dick suddenly jolted away. The movement was accompanied by deep gasps and shuffling feet.

 _“Fuck_. The kid has a knife!”

If it were any other situation, Dick would roll his eyes. As it was, he silently thanked the heavens that Damian had managed not to lethally stab anybody yet. He reached around blindly, trying to find him.

“Well, take it away from him!”

“You do it!”

A growl. “Pathetic. You’re scared of a little boy.”

A muffled yelp.

“No! Wait!” Unable to find his brother, Dick scooted toward the sound of something dragging across the carpet. “Stop!”

He finally reached Damian’s side, only for a white-hot slash of pain to slice down his arm. He couldn’t help his grunt in reaction.

The sound of the knife falling to the floor was muffled by the carpet, but unmistakable. Dick couldn’t see, but he was positive that it was immediately retrieved by one of the goons.

Sure enough, the leader laughed, somewhere above Dick’s head. “Did daddy teach the little brat some self-defense?”

“Leave him alone,” Dick growled. He found Damian’s shirt and clung to it.

“Oh?” Hot breath fanned across Dick’s face, much too close to be comfortable. “Feeling a little. . . _protective_?”

Dick’s heart jumped in his chest.

Something in his face must have showed it, because the goons around him laughed. “We must have gotten the right one, then. Norman will be pleased.”

“Who’s that?” Dick asked. “Listen, I can get you money—”

“That’s not why we’re here,” the leader said.

“Then what do you want?”

The leader’s mouth curled into a cruel grin. “You’ll see.”

A rag was closed over his lower face, the sharp stench of chloroform following. Dick thrashed his head, but between the blindfold and his bound hands he had no (reasonable) defense.

Between one breath and the next, he fell asleep.

* * *

“Take off his blindfold.”

Dick blinked, more for the release of pressure on his eyes than for the light, which was dim inside the small, windowless room. He was still groggy, his head pounded from the last dredges of chloroform, and his shoulders already ached from behind tied around the back of his chair, but his attention was immediately caught by his surroundings.

Four men stared down at him threateningly. One of them had his arms wrapped around Damian, who was also tied to a chair, still blindfolded and gagged.

More threatening was the knife poised over Damian’s face.

Dick’s heart hammered at the sight. “I won’t fight you. You don’t have to hurt him.”

“Ah, but we do,” called a new voice, from behind.

Dick tried to twist, but he had to wait until the man chose to step into his sightline. He had dark hair and a rat-like face: small eyes, yellow teeth, and a sparse moustache. The smirk he gave Dick held a mix of resentment and triumphant possessiveness.

“I’ve got money,” Dick tried, even remembering how the offer had gone last time. “I just need to make a phone call.”

The man clicked his tongue and shook his head. “That will not work. You see,” he offered, removing his tobacco-stained fingers from his pockets. “This has been a long-time coming. I could get money, but you’re rich, so what would that really teach you?”

This was personal. This was bad.

The man took a step forward, leaning into Dick’s personal space. “I could get sex.” Dick flinched. “But I bet you would enjoy that.”

A sick feeling rose in Dick’s stomach at the insinuation.

“I want to give you a pain that will _last_ ,” the man finished, eyes trailing over to Damian.

The goon that was holding his brother down had moved his arm around Damian’s neck, forcing his chin up and back. It would take almost nothing to break his neck.

Dick forced himself to shove aside his panic and _think_. This was personal; the man wanted to cause pain. He needed to keep the man’s attention off Damian until help could arrive. “Who are you?” Dick asked.

The rat-faced man turned to him with bared teeth. “My name is Norman Darth, and you’re the reason my wife left me.”

Dick blinked a few times, stalling while he racked his brain for why the name was familiar. Norman’s face grew darker as he waited for some kind of reaction. It was that look that reminded Dick where he had seen him before: caught for embezzling charity money, back during Dick’s BPD days.

“I’m sorry to hear about your wife,” he said, trying to sound sincere but firm. “You don’t have to do this.”

Norman sneered. “You don’t _get_ it! I loved her!” He snapped his fingers, and the goons around him straightened their posture. “It’s your fault I lost the person I loved. Now it’s going to be my fault you lose yours.”

Dick didn’t think. The goon was adjusting his grip on Damian’s knife, aiming the blade down his neck. The man wanted revenge, and on such short notice Dick only saw one option.

Pretend he didn’t care.

“So, what? You’re going to threaten me with him?”

The goon frowned, and the knife pressed in, just enough to draw a drop of blood. “Don’t test me,” he warned.

“Shut up,” Norman barked. “Just kill him. Make it slow.”

Dick laughed. Damian startled at the sound, and it made it nearly impossible for Dick to keep the tremble out of his own voice. “Go ahead, do your worst. See if I care.”

The goon’s hand hesitated, not pushing any deeper into Damian’s neck. After a moment, Norman held up a hand to call him off. “You’re bluffing,” he said, almost phrasing it like a question.

Bingo.

Dick scoffed. “That would be stupid.”

“He cared about him in the van,” the big man, the one Dick had thought had been the leader, said. “Got real protective.”

Norman pursed his lips, considering Dick coldly. “Cut him,” he said, instead. “Nowhere lethal, yet.”

The man holding Damian dropped the blade to Damian’s bound arm and pierced Damian’s jacket and shirt. Norman didn’t even look back, instead raising an eyebrow at Dick’s non-reaction to the knife running down Damian’s arm like it were warm butter. Not too deep, but deep enough it definitely hurt. Maybe even deep enough to scar.

Damian managed not to make a sound, a fact that didn’t comfort Dick. What he could see of the kid’s face and body was clenched tight, trying to stay still so as not to disturb the weapon trailing along his body.

“Threatening him won’t get you what you want,” Dick promised. He didn’t know how he kept his tone so even. “He’s not worth that much.”

The man suddenly twisted the blade, opening the wound in Damian’s upper arm further. Damian yelped this time, the sound muffled by the duct tape over his mouth.

Dick managed not to flinch.

“Damn, you really don’t care about him, do you?” One of the other goons in the room asked. “Is that what money does to you?”

“He’s not my kid,” Dick said, shrugging. The words already tasted bitter in his mouth. “I’m just stuck with him.”

Damian sucked in a sharp breath. It had nothing to do with the man removing the knife and everything to do with Dick’s words.

Dick had to look away. “I only watch him because Bruce asked me to.”

A pregnant pause followed the words.

“I don’t believe you,” Norman said. He was not convincing.

Dick made eye contact, pointedly ignoring the small hands, clenched into tight fists across from him. “If I knew where his mom was,” he said, feeling his chest tighten at the words, “I’d send him back.”

Norman studied his face, his expression a deep frown of disgust. “You’re a terrible father,” he spat.

“I’m not—” Dick started, ready to continue the ruse for as long as it took to keep the attention off Damian. But he was cut off when the wall next to them fell away, nearly crushing two of the goons underneath.

Spoiler stepped through the door. “Sorry we’re late. Traffic was terrible.”

Black Bat followed her into the room, her silence speaking for itself.

* * *

Damian was suspiciously quiet for the entire ride back to the Cave. Dick tried to get him to let him take a look at his arm, which was still bleeding under the field dressings that Cass had applied, but Damian had brushed away his attempts with a curt “Pennyworth will take care of it.”

Okay, so the kid was being a little more moody than usual. Understandable, since he had spent the last several hours immobile, blind, and silenced. Dick didn’t push it.

But when the behavior continued into the next day, and then the day following that, he grew worried. Damian was avoiding him, for some reason. He spent his time tucked away in his own room, and he didn’t engage in conversation over dinner. Damian had always been. . . prickly, but Dick had thought they were making progress. This was something new.

They needed to talk.

Dick finally got his chance when he found Damian on the manor’s lawns, walking Titus. Dick fell into step eagerly. “Hey, Damian.”

“Tt.” Damian didn’t even look over at him. He didn’t actively try to get away, though, either, and Dick took that as an invitation.

“Nice weather, huh?”

“It is raining.”

“I know.” Dick brushed his wet hair back. “It’s nice.”

“Tt.”

They walked in silence for several minutes, and it drove Dick crazy that he couldn’t read whether it was companionable or awkward. When Titus found a spot to squat, Dick seized the opportunity. “I think we need to talk.”

“Were we not talking earlier?”

“No, something’s up.” Dick studied Damian’s impassive face. “Is something bothering you?”

“No,” was Damian’s immediate reply. But Dick had learned Damian’s tells, and he caught the way the boy’s hands flexed.

“Are you sure?” Dick prompted, gently. “You can tell me if something’s wrong. I won’t be mad.”

Damian stared at the ground, letting the hood of his rain jacket obscure his expression for him. “You do not have to pretend with me, any longer,” he declared.

Dick bit his tongue, tasting the words. “Pretend?”

“I am here only for training,” Damian continued. “You are not obligated to be involved in my life otherwise.”

“ _Obligated_?” Dick asked, confused. “What are you talking about?”

Damian finally looked up at him, and he wore a stony expression. “You confessed your feelings towards me to Darth,” he said. “Did you really mean that?”

All of the blood fell out of Dick’s face. He felt nauseous again, like he had been freshly chloroformed. “ _No_.”

Damian looked away again, his shoulders tight. “Okay.”

“No, Damian.” Dick grabbed his shoulders to spin him around. “I know we don’t always get along, but I care about you.”

To his surprise, Damian’s eyes were shining. “You would not send me back to mother, if you had the chance?”

Dick pulled Damian in for a hug, holding him tight and tucking head under his chin. “ _Never_ ,” he said, squeezing harder in hopes it would press the words into Damian’s psyche. “You’re too important to me.”

Damian didn’t pull away.

In fact, Damian leaned into the hug, maybe for the first time ever.

“I love you,” Dick repeated.

“Tt.”

Dick smiled, understanding what went unsaid.


End file.
